I rubbed my bulging stomach, trying to appease the skin that was stretched and desiccated, begging me for assurance. We were expecting our first child, and at that point in building our baby registry, my mind was whirling. I wanted to hide from the bright white lights of the colossal store, but they reached into every aisle and reflected their potency from the vinyl flooring. My feet felt like stubs too small for the weight of my body and my son’s growing one. I felt too small for the weight of “shoulds” I had agreed to without a fight.
Ten years ago, at this point, I thought our decisions about everything from sleep schedules to discipline, homemade verses jarred baby food, and whether or not we taught our son to speak sign language along with other needed languages, would determine how bumpy our flight of parenting would begin and stretch forward. Beyond that, I believed that all of our work would ensure our son’s safety, thriving, well-being, and basically, his everything.
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